


Scansion

by Yikes (CoralFlower)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Desi Harry Potter, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle are Bros, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle are Colleagues, Kidnapping, Lies, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Memory Charms, Memory Loss, Professor Harry Potter, Professor Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralFlower/pseuds/Yikes
Summary: Harry wakes up to his best friend informing him he has been missing for six weeks, an ache in his scar, and a feeling that something is deeply wrong with the situation.Harry knows exactly how he appears now (drowsy and relieved to hear Tom’s voice), but he does not know how he will appear if he is noticed noticing the dark mark that he feels fairly certain now resides on his left forearm, pulsing thickly with magic that is simultaneously intoxicating and vomit-inducing.





	1. iamb

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy. here we go. at long last i have been sucked down this rabbit hole. this was supposed to be less than 5k words of smut but im ~10K in and theres no smut yet. rip me
> 
> au where harry and tom are both professors at hogwarts and also some other stuff is different but im not going to tell you what :D
> 
> this might include dubcon later. ive written chapter 2 (its almost 8000 words) and im working on chapter three
> 
> disclaimer: im not desi, so any feedback about that aspect of this fic from someone who knows what theyre talking about would be welcome. id especially appreciate advice about stereotypes/tropes i should avoid, since i couldnt find any lists when i did my research.

Harry’s first sign that something has gone very, very wrong comes as soon as he becomes aware of his surroundings again: it is cold. There’s a faint dripping sound that sends a tingling sensation dancing across his scalp until he wakes up a little bit further and notices the second sign that not everything is as it should be, which is, of course, the voice that murmurs somewhere behind him, sibilant and smooth. As he’s contemplating it, the third sign becomes apparent when his scar begins to ache. It doesn’t hurt much compared to what he’s had before, and is only worth mentioning because of the thrill that surges through him as he notices it, like... like intricately laid plans have just come to fruition and yielded unexpected benefits. The dark lord is fucking delighted. Idly, Harry wonders if his colleague and fellow Assistant Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts will have anything to say about the ache; Tom always says Harry is adorably transparent when he’s in pain. Well, whatever. Anyone would have trouble keeping their composure with Voldemort’s emotions popping up constantly in their head. Tom just jumps at any chance to be an ass, is what it is.

Harry rolls his eyes at the thought of Tom, and notices the fourth and last sign as he sits up.

There is a sharp pain in his left arm, like he’s pulled every single muscle connected to his wrist. Harry squints down and sees a dark, bruise-like shape on his forearm, indistinct in the dim light.

The voice behind him stops. Harry tenses, distracted from his arm by his vulnerability and lack of glasses or wand.

“Harry,” says Tom, and Harry relaxes automatically. Okay. Maybe things aren’t quite as bad as they seem, if Tom is here. After all, he’s in just the same boat as Harry; the dark lord orphaned both of them. That’s how Harry knows he can trust Tom: the war is personal for both of them, and he knows Tom would put his life on the line to stop Lord Voldemort. “How are you feeling? You’ve been through quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

“What’s--” Harry says, and then stops. Something is wrong about this. He can’t put his finger on it, but-- “Where are we?”

“That’ll require a bit of a complicated explanation,” Tom says. “You trust me, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry trusts Tom because Tom hates Voldemort, but that isn’t the only reason; he has seen Tom throw off the Imperius Curse like it was no greater hindrance than a bedsheet tossed over his body. He trusts Tom’s willpower, trusts that he will never allow his body to be used against Harry. However, in this unfamiliar setting, that still leaves many ways this person (who certainly sounds like Tom, but hasn’t shown his face) could be an enemy. Aware that he’s in a dangerous situation, Harry begins to think.

He does not much like what he comes up with.

Left.

There is an ache in Harry’s _left_ forearm, which holds an indistinct splotch that he could not quite make out without his glasses. That cannot be coincidence. Harry does not look, because the only consistent impression people get from him is that he is naive and too trusting for his own good. He knows exactly how he appears now (drowsy and relieved to hear Tom’s voice), but he does not know how he will appear if he is noticed noticing the dark mark that he feels fairly certain now resides on his left forearm, pulsing thickly with magic that is simultaneously intoxicating and vomit-inducing.

“Tom?” Harry says, because he’s terrible at overt lies, but not quite as bad at lies of omission. If this is Tom, he’ll see through Harry in seconds anyway.

“Yes, it’s me,” is all Tom says, increasing Harry’s suspicion tenfold. “You never told me how you are feeling.”

“Fine,” Harry says, on edge, because something is very, very wrong, and he has no idea what it could be other than Tom, who still has not stepped into Harry’s line of sight. Frustrated, he begins to turn despite his stiff neck.

A cold hand on the bare skin of his shoulder, stopping him. Harry looks down at himself and sees an emerald green muggle tank top partly soaked through with sweat.

“Whose shirt is this?” he asks, using the fact that he truly is curious to change the subject without being too suspicious-- hopefully-- oh, whatever, Harry has no idea how to deceive anyone, he’s an open book and always has been. Not much point even trying, really.

“Mine,” Tom says, finally walking around Harry to lean over him protectively. “You were... not clothed, when I retrieved you.”

“What the fuck happened,” Harry says, at ease now, because Tom’s mannerisms are the same as always, so really, he must be safe. His gut feeling is just... leftovers, from whatever situation Tom rescued him from. Surely. “Where are my glasses?”

Harry still does not mention the dark mark on his arm.

“You were taken,” Tom says, and he is always emotionless, like a slab of stone, but his monotone is even less varied right now than usual. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws something that Harry realises is his glasses when Tom hands them to him.

“You worried,” Harry says softly, putting his glasses on, and Tom’s face closes off even more, which is how Harry knows he is correct in his guess.

“Of course I did,” Tom says, just as quiet as Harry. He takes Harry’s hand, and Harry’s jaw drops as Tom looks away, holding Harry’s right hand, his wand hand, in both of his, spreading out Harry’s fingers and feeling his skin as if to confirm that he truly is right here. “Harry...”

“Yes?” Harry says, tactful enough not to make a big deal of the fact that Tom is touching him.

“This is the least appropriate time for such a confession...” the corner of Tom’s mouth twists bitterly, and Harry frowns. Confession? “But imagining how bereft my existence would be, if any harm were to befall you... being faced with the reality of life without you, even with the significant chance you were still alive... I could not forgive myself if I allowed this... admission to remain unspoken and something happened to you, however shameful it may be...”

“What do you mean?” Harry says, and Riddle-- for some reason he’s not quite Tom in this moment-- squeezes Harry’s hand more tightly.

“It seems that somehow, you have deceived me into investing a good portion of my heart into your wellbeing,” Riddle says, and even as he speaks, Harry knows he is lying. But why? “It was really rather Slytherin of you, you know.”

“The hat wanted me for Slytherin,” Harry says, and then flushes, unsure why he’s still speaking with candor in the face of such a lie from Riddle. “Said I could be great.”

“And you argued,” Riddle says, eyes alight like the final piece of a very difficult puzzle has been slid into place for him. “Of course. That’s why you took so long to be sorted. You aren’t disgusted with me, then?”

“Of course not,” Harry says truthfully, because he isn’t disgusted, just confused. “Tom, please look at me.”

Harry forces the muscles in his face to relax as Riddle slowly turns, and he must not feel judged by whatever he sees, because a very small smile finds its way onto his lips. Maybe he thinks it looks shy. To Harry, it just looks awkward. Forced.

Riddle always knows when Harry lies, but Harry knows when Riddle lies a good portion of the time as well. So it’s a strange relationship they have. Harry tries to puzzle out why Riddle would make it even stranger with a lie of this magnitude, and can’t puzzle out any possible motive.

“Where are we?” Harry asks.

“Do you trust me?” Riddle asks.

“With everything I have,” Harry says, rather ungenerously, hoping Riddle doesn’t suspect the reason he only names his material possessions instead of his life.

It’s strange, but since waking up, Harry’s trust for Riddle has begun to ebb away.

“You are certain?” Riddle says, eyes earnest, and Harry looks away and scrambles inwardly to make it look bashful instead of untrustworthy.

“Just tell me if we are alone,” Harry murmurs, refusing to look back up at Riddle. “I don’t have to know where we are, if you can assure me we have privacy here.”

“It’s only the two of us, Harry,” Riddle says, and Harry has to struggle to keep his expression the same. _Liar_ , he wants to call out, but he cannot-- it has been true, for many years, that Harry Potter trusts Tom Riddle with his life. To act outwardly as though this is no longer the case would be... inadvisable, Harry believes.

“Good,” Harry says, closing his fingers around Riddle’s and squeezing. Riddle lied, so they aren’t alone, so who else could be lurking in the shadows? “I’m... I couldn’t bear it, if anyone else...”

Riddle’s tongue darts out of his mouth in a flash of pink, then disappears again.

“...Touched you this way?” he asks, and Harry is hit by the certainty that Tom Riddle wants to touch him in even more ways. Tom Riddle wants to explore him and map him out like an ancient tomb.

“Saw me like this,” Harry murmurs, shutting his eyes. “I must be a mess...”

“You don’t look so bad,” Riddle says, and Harry opens his eyes to study him. It’s almost funny that out of everything he has said to Harry so far, this is the truth.

“Don’t lie to me, Tom,” Harry says, rolling his eyes, because he is fond of irony, and Riddle reaches out to touch Harry’s face, cupping his cheek and then leaving his hand there afterwards, which has never happened before.

“I’m not,” Riddle says. “Harry, in my eyes, you are never a mess.”

“You’re a sap,” Harry grumbles.

“You turned me into this,” Riddle says. “You’ve created a monster, Harry Potter.”

Harry shudders despite himself.

“Are you alright? Does anything hurt?”

“My scar,” Harry says. “But it’s just a slight ache, really.”

“Anything else?” Riddle asks, and Harry knows what he’s hinting at. The dark mark, pulsing on his forearm. Strange that Riddle hasn’t noticed; he’s even more adept at sensing magic than Harry is, and knows the feel of Harry’s magic better than Harry himself does. Once, he crossed the entire castle blind from a hex to get to Harry because he’s too goddamn stubborn to ask for directions to the hospital wing when he can simply track Harry down and make him guide him there. So surely Riddle _has_ noticed the change in Harry’s magic, the leech which has latched onto him. Which begs the question: why hasn’t he said anything?

“I feel weird,” Harry says softly.

“Weird how?”

“Everything is different, now...”

“What do you mean?” Riddle asks, probing, and because he’s feeling a tad petty, Harry only shrugs. “You don’t know?”

“Tom--”

“Harry,” Riddle says, reaching for Harry’s left arm. “Please, tell me what happened in there. What did they do to you?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, pulling both arms out of Riddle’s grip and hugging them to his stomach. “I don’t remember, Tom. How long was I...”

“Six weeks,” Riddle says, and Harry’s jaw drops, because that seems like an excessively long time to be missing. “Six weeks and one day.”

“Where?” Harry asks.

“You really don’t remember anything?” Riddle says, and Harry tries to remember, really thinks about it, but his most recent memory is of bidding him goodnight at the door to his quarters.

“Nothing,” he says. “Tom, _please_. What do you know?”

Riddle does not attempt to deflect the question. He just sits there, silent, allowing Harry to get more and more nervous.

“It is difficult to speak of,” he says finally, and Harry narrows his eyes, unable to hide the suspicious reaction this time. There is no way Riddle didn’t notice, because he catalogues every little change in a person’s facial expression when he speaks to anyone.

“Tom,” Harry says, because it would be even more suspicious to display suspicion without acting on it. “Did you kidnap me?”

Riddle’s eyes widen. He looks properly horrified.

“Of course not,” he says. “Harry--”

“The last thing I remember is saying goodnight to you as I retired to my quarters for the night,” Harry says. “Nothing else. You and I both know of your skill with memory charms. Tom, what does he have over you? I can help you, if you let me, I don’t have to tell anyone it was you.”

“It was not--”

“It was,” Harry says, certain now. “You have lied to me several times so far tonight, Tom, and I don’t understand why. Worse-- I know you must be able to feel _this_ \--” Harry thrusts his left forearm out to Riddle, and it is indeed the dark mark decorating his skin-- “yet you do not seem surprised. What did he give you to do it? Who did he threaten?”

Riddle blinks at Harry, so perfectly composed that his surprise is clear as day.

“You,” he says simply, and Harry frowns, opening his mouth to tell him just how little sense that makes. “My memory of you.”

Harry’s brow furrows even more.

“I don’t follow.”

“I am a selfish creature,” Riddle says. “I value my own mental stability more than almost anything... I say almost, because through this ordeal, I belatedly realised I do not value it more than I value your safety. I made a mistake, Harry.”

Riddle is looking ruefully at the dark mark on Harry’s arm, which draws Harry’s attention to it as well. The marked portion of Harry’s skin is raised, and reminds him of the allergic reaction he had to henna a very long time ago when his father dragged the three of them to India to attend a relative’s wedding. He remembers the breathtaking, sunrise-beauty of a rushed scale pattern as a cousin painted it onto his wrist, in a hurry because Harry had decided he wanted it at the last second. He remembers the itch in his skin that he tried to ignore at first, and the rough pain of scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing, at his wrist until the scales were almost gone.

He remembers looking at the faded orange-tan, barely visible except where it edged up onto the lighter skin of his palm, and he remembers wondering if it hurt him because he didn’t really belong. His cousins were born in India and they were all so comfortable hundreds of miles from Harry’s home, while Harry, five years old and already far too perceptive, felt like an outsider. Even his father fit perfectly into the group, the way the creepy leather legs of a wizarding cricket ball fold back into its body when the game finally ends. Harry much prefers the snitch.

Harry thinks about those relatives, about whether they could possibly still want him without his father alive to connect them together (Aunt Petunia doesn’t). And he thinks about the dark lord, and how angry it makes him to see the dark mark presented as though either component is frightening, as though either is evil.

“You betrayed me,” Harry says simply. “And you are not sorry. To be honest, you seem rather pleased.”

“Only to find you again, in one piece,” Riddle says, and Harry’s heart, his traitorous, cracked heart, whispers that maybe... maybe he means it.

Harry knows he is lying, but he wants to believe it, and he is exhausted from the conversation, barely able to keep his eyes open, so he reaches for Riddle and waits for him to lean in close enough for Harry to loop an arm around his waist and tug him closer.

“Thank you for saving me,” Harry mumbles, yawning. “You did the right thing in the end... We can talk more later. I’ll... I’ll protect you, Riddle, won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

As Harry’s eyes slip shut, he feels a finger tracing the raised, wound-like bump of the dark mark on his skin. 

“Sleep, Harry,” Riddle murmurs, and Harry sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 points to anyone who can guess the setting of this chapter!
> 
> also yes, its possible to be allergic to henna. its one of my many allergies and it gave me pretty scars for a couple weeks back in middle school before they faded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive decided whatever plan i originally had for chapter titles was dumb. this chapter is short because i wrote it to stick before the original second chapter lol
> 
> this is the same setting as chapter one, itll prolly be obvious once you read

Something is off. Something is strange. Harry is in a cavernous room. He can tell because of the dripping sound that echoes in the emptiness. The place smells wet and musty. He opens his eyes.

His glasses, thankfully, are on his face this time. This time? Harry is overcome for a moment by deja vu.

He has been here before. Someone is murmuring behind him.

“Tom?” Harry calls. The murmuring stops.

“Harry,” Tom says.

“Where-- what’s going on?” Harry asks. He hears Tom sigh.

The hall is too dark for Harry to see every detail, but he can vaguely make out a statue of a man set into one wall, and there are snake-themed elements to the pillars as well.

“You’ve been missing,” Tom says. There is caution in his voice. “Care to explain where you’ve been?”

Harry frowns. Tom sounds... nervous. Distrustful.

“I-- Tom, what is this place?”

Harry is peering at the surroundings. He sits up and starts to turn around, and a hand lands on his shoulder to stop him. For some reason, Harry feels the tightness in his throat and the pain in his nose that means he might cry. Tom’s hand is firm. It’s warm. He’s touched Tom only a few times before, but his skin was always cold, like a snake.

“Harry,” Tom says. His grip on Harry’s shoulder becomes more firm. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“I don’t-- I don’t know what you mean,” Harry says. “Is this a prank? I--”

“Stop playing dumb,” Tom says. He sounds... like he’s trying to sound scared. Harry tries to turn further and Tom leans in, gets his face right by Harry’s to block his view over his shoulder. “Why is there a dark mark on your arm, Harry?”

Harry jolts, both because this is the closest he’s ever been to Tom and because _what the fuck_. His lips part, and he furrows his brow, turning back forwards to lift his left arm out of his lap and look at it.

Ugly and sharp, the dark mark pulses with his heartbeat, which has begun to roar in his ears.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry mutters, leaning forwards to put an elbow on his knee and rest his head heavily in his hand. “I-- what?”

“Where have you been?” Tom asks, and his voice is sharp now, still close. Harry turns to the side to see Tom inches away, intense, and his eyes widen.

“Tom--” he says, and Tom’s face hardens.

Normally, when Tom wants into Harry’s mind, he brushes up against the front of it like knocking on a door. This time, he forces his way in with an ease that makes Harry shudder, and he’s almost relieved-- if anyone can figure out the disarray of his memories, it’ll be Tom, and Tom will make everything okay, and figure out how this happened, and how to make it like it never did in the first place-- but on the other hand...

Gathering his strength, Harry shoves, and just barely manages to make Tom leave his mind. He breaks eye contact right afterwards, and Tom lets out a frustrated growl, lurching forwards like he wants to hurt Harry before Harry says,

“You could have asked me.”

Tom pauses.

“Harry,” he says. “You’re acting very--”

“Ask me,” Harry says, baring his teeth, because Tom has _never_ violated his trust like this before. “Don’t just give in to your first impulse. You _know_ I let you in whenever you want.”

There. No matter how drastic the situation is, obliquely comparing Tom’s behaviour to Gryffindorish impulsivity will probably make him think twice.

Tom grits his teeth.

“Harry,” he says. “Let me scan your mind.”

Harry studies him. He’s full of nervous energy despite his attempts to seem calm and smooth.

“That wasn’t a question,” he says. Tom’s face somehow gets even more stony.

“May I scan your mind,” he recites, like it’s a script he’s memorised.

“Yes,” Harry says. “Thank you for asking.”

Tom is petulant as he reenters Harry’s mind, but now Harry can feel relieved without also feeling violated, so it’s worth his friend’s bad mood. Tom begins organising Harry’s recent memories without asking permission, and Harry doesn’t mind, because the job is finished too quickly for him to worry about that. Tom withdraws.

“You don’t remember,” he says, and Harry shakes his head.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees quietly. “Last I remember, I bade you goodnight. Tom-- how could this have happened?”

Tom shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Though I am... relieved that you did not turn to his side, Harry.”

“I would never,” Harry says. “I can appreciate what it looked like, though.”

“Is that your way of forgiving me for what I did just now?” Tom asks, a glint in his eye, and Harry shrugs languidly, already more comfortable, because Tom is here and Tom is going to help him.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Or perhaps I’m only biding my time, so that you let your guard down. You never know.”

“Indeed,” Tom says, but now he sounds more amused. “You’re a strange one, Harry.”

“As are you, Tom,” Harry says, and Tom lets out a sigh that almost turns into a laugh as he leans on the back of Harry’s chair from the side. Harry looks up at him with a smirk. “So, where are we?”

“Nowhere important,” Tom says, and Harry narrows his eyes.

“That’s a lie,” he says, a little surprised. “Now I’m even more curious, Tom. Where are we? Who were you talking to, just now?”

Tom’s head tilts delicately sideways.

“Talking?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “You were whispering--”

“I’m afraid you must have been hearing wrong,” Tom says, and Harry lets his incredulousness show on his face.

“Stop bullshitting me, Tom.”

Tom glances at something behind Harry, and Harry is tired of secrets at this point, tired of Tom being evasive. He turns around to look.

He sees a massive snake coiled up, head turning towards him, and then Tom’s hand covers his eyes.

“ _Eyes closed_ ,” Tom says urgently.

“ _Why?_ ” Harry asks, and Tom stiffens beside him; for some reason, he is standing so close to Harry that their bodies touch. “ _Why is there a huge snake--_ ”

“Sleep,” Tom says, putting his other hand over Harry’s temple, and Harry feels a flash of alarm as he slides deep into slumber, and then there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning** this chapter gets nsfw!! and there's **dubcon** elements

Harry wakes up in a warm, cozy bed with no idea how he got there, but Tom is by his side, so things can’t be all that bad. Yes, his arm hurts for some reason, and his thoughts are fuzzy, but it’s a pleasant sort of fuzz, like white clouds as opposed to static. He feels soft, not all the way there, but Tom is here, so Harry is safe. Harry reaches out to touch him, just to make sure he is real, and discovers that Tom sure does have smooth hair. Tom has soft skin too, especially his eyelids, and Harry touches those for a moment before Tom’s breath hitches, and Harry pulls his hand away just before Tom’s eyes open.

“You’re awake,” Tom says. “Finally.”

For some reason it sounds like a lie to Harry, but he dismisses the thought.

“You’re soft,” Harry says, mystified by the vulnerability Tom displayed just now. He never does that. Tom bristles, and Harry wants to roll his eyes at him and his silly, pointless pride.

“There’s something you should know, Harry,” Tom says, voice grave, and Harry swallows and looks at him with concern.

“Okay,” he says. “Tell me, then. I trust you.”

Tom smiles wanly and leans over to lift Harry’s left arm out from under the covers.

“You were taken,” Tom says. “By the dark lord. You’ve been missing for six weeks, Harry, everyone has been so worried. And... while he had you...”

Tom turns Harry’s arm over, and Harry just stares at the mark now etched into his skin, raised and itchy like an allergy rash.

Well, this explains why Tom is in the bed with him. If Harry was missing for six weeks... Tom’s paranoia would probably overcome his aversion to physical closeness.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry mutters, horrified. “But he could have-- I don’t even remember-- do you know what happened to me? Tom, please? You can help me remember, can’t you?”

He’s clinging to Tom now, but he can’t help it; he feels so alone, so off-balance. The unbalanced feeling grows when Tom does not shove him away but instead pulls him closer. Everything is strange. Tom’s skin is so soft. He’s speaking softly too.

“It would be inadvisable,” Tom says, holding Harry’s left wrist with a gentleness that makes him tremble. “I could hurt you, exacerbate whatever trauma you went through... I’ve already checked for memory charms, Harry, I’m sorry for not asking permission, but I could not wait for you to wake up... whatever happened, your mind has hidden it from you of its own accord. I believe it best that you forget.”

Tom’s thumb slides over the dark mark and the magic crackles beneath Harry’s skin like electricity. Strange, but Harry doesn’t mind it, because he trusts Tom instinctively, with his body more than his mind. Leaning into him isn’t a conscious choice; it’s just what he does.

“That doesn’t matter to me,” Harry says. “Even if-- we need information, Tom. Please. I trust you. Help me remember.”

“I don’t think I could handle seeing it,” Tom says. “When I finally found you-- I would do something stupid, Harry, if I helped you remember. Do not ask me to watch you helpless.”

Harry widens his eyes pleadingly and seeks out eye contact.

“Tom, you of all people should understand why I have to ask.”

Tom shakes his head.

“I understand,” he says, voice soft in volume but hard in tone. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Harry. I will not see-- I will not. You have no idea how difficult it is for me to refrain from locking you away right now somewhere safe. I know it would be unfair, but I want it so badly, don’t you see?”

“Please,” Harry says, as tears well up in his eyes and he clings to Tom. “You can help me. I know it’ll be horrifying and awful, but Tom, you saved me. It’s over, he can’t hurt me anymore--”

“I only found you because he wanted me to,” Tom says. “He’s playing with us, Harry, he could have kept you forever if he wanted. He could take you again. Nothing is safe.”

That doesn't sound like Tom at all. 

“Were you worried?’ Harry asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Earlier you said everyone was so worried, but you didn’t say whether you were or not.”

“I wasn’t at first,” Tom admits. “You can handle yourself, so... the first few days I did not fear for you. Only once you had been missing for several weeks did I begin to succumb to the panic of your friends, which by then had begun to subside into a vague sense of mourning as one by one they gave up on you. After four weeks, I began searching in earnest, and three days ago, I returned to my quarters after a two-week leave of absence to find you unconscious and unclothed on my couch. Harry, he was in Hogwarts. He was in my--”

“You have a private apparition point,” Harry says, and he grins as Tom gapes at him. “You aren’t supposed to, and the headmaster doesn’t know. That’s probably how I got there, Tom. I bet I got far enough away to apparate and knew I’d be safe if you were near.”

“How do you know about that?” Tom asks, and Harry frowns, finding it strange that Tom is concerned with that when there’s so many more important things to worry about; it’s probably the shock.

“I know you,” Harry says. “You never let your guard down in a corner, but you can relax in your quarters. With the Floo being monitored so heavily now, especially within Hogwarts, it was obvious you must have another exit. There aren’t any passages from within your rooms, so I figured it must be an apparition point. Honestly, Tom. You keep your hall closet empty and free of dust, there’s even a mat there to wipe your shoes on.”

Tom’s eyes narrow, and his grip on Harry’s wrist tightens. The magic in the dark mark shivers, and Harry shivers too.

“Why were you in my hall closet?”

“I was looking for towels,” Harry lies. “Remember, when I came in from reffing that Quidditch match all muddy and you all but shoved me into your shower--”

“You’re a horrible liar, Potter,” says Tom, and Harry shrugs, grinning. Ah, well. He figured he was doing better than usual, adding in the bit about the Quidditch match-- that was true, and he did look into Tom’s closet after showering that day.

“Alright, I was curious,” he says. “The handle was rubbed shiny like the nose of the brass dog statue in the park by my parents’ old house, so I knew you must open that door a lot, but I had never seen you do it, and besides, I knew you’d not keep any _real_ secrets out in the open like that. It probably saved my life, Tom.”

“I suppose it did,” Tom says. “Perhaps your constant snooping is good for something after all.”

“Oh, perhaps,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “So why am I here? Where is here?”

“A safehouse,” Tom says. “Headmaster Dippet seems to believe you need time to rest and recuperate away from responsibilities and prying eyes, and I am the best fighter Hogwarts can spare at the moment.”

That’s not the full story, Harry is sure.

“Speaking of recuperation,” he says. “Tom, you aren’t the only legilimens I know. I’m sure my apprentice would be delighted to assist, especially if he knew the risk it would harm me, considering in his last lesson I set him an impossible puzzle as a prank, intending to let him in on the joke the next day.”

“Yes, Severus is likely to be rather put out about that,” Tom says, and Harry wonders if he’s going to need to pull out the big guns to get Tom to admit that Harry’s safety isn’t the only reason he does not want to help him recover his memories. “But I would not advise--”

“Tom, I have to know,” Harry says. “You don’t understand--”

“I have reason to believe the dark lord is also a legilimens,” Tom says, and Harry’s jaw drops.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “That can’t be--”

“When he killed my father,” Tom says, and Harry stops, because Tom has never spoken about this to him before. Tom stops as well, as though he does not know how to say what he wants to say. “Harry, I... I watched that green light flying towards him and I could have stopped it. And then-- then-- I saw myself reflected in those eyes, once my father was dead, and the dark lord just stared right into my soul as if to name me accomplice. Because I did not give up my future for a father who did not want me.”

“I thought you--”

“I did not love my father,” Tom says, looking Harry in the eye. “That does not mean anyone is allowed to murder him.”

Harry swallows, shocked at this admission, at the implications of the fact that Tom did not love his father. _Tom’s father did not want him_ , Harry thinks, and the fact that Tom still craves revenge, still hates the man who killed him, is sad. Sad and very admirable.

“Of course not,” he chokes out.

“You know the way it feels to make eye contact with a master legilimens?” Tom says. “Even if they aren’t attacking you?”

And Harry has met Hogwarts’s Transfiguration Professor, so he nods.

“Of course I do.”

“It was like that simply to stand in the same room as him,” Tom says. “As though he so casually scans the minds of everyone he crosses paths with that it bleeds from his every pore.”

“Why would you make eye contact with--”

“Because I could feel that he did not need it,” Tom says. “He had already begun to sift through my surface thoughts. I wanted to-- I don’t know. Stand against him, and test him at the same time. It was silly. He set... you know Dumbledore’s bad habit of dipping into the thoughts of others?”

“Yes,” Harry says.

“I believe Dumbledore was his intended target. I did not realise until just before I could meet Dumbledore’s eyes later that the dark lord had set a trap in my mind. I dismantled it as soon as I was alone, of course, but I had to be careful to avoid eye contact during that entire conversation, as I had no idea how easily such a trap would be sprung.”

“You think he did that to me,” Harry says.

“I am not certain,” says Tom. “However, I know that he could have. It would be dangerous for both of us to take the risk.”

“You said you checked for memory charms,” Harry says.

“Yes, I did,” Tom says. “It was reckless. I should not have entered even your subconscious--”

“Why did you check?”

Tom blinks at him, mouth hanging open, and then says,

“I had a feeling.”

“A feeling that he would have modified--”

“I don’t know!” Tom snaps. “Stop asking questions. I just had a feeling.”

Harry flinches at the command, and even as he shuts his eyes against the sense memories of his aunt’s hand on his back, shoving him into the cupboard (she was an awful babysitter), he knows that Tom has lied to him. Has been lying to him for a significant part of this conversation, in fact. He stiffens, and pulls his hands out of Tom’s grip, opening his eyes to see Tom staring back at him with dutiful concern. There’s a brush against the front of his mind, the way there always is when Tom offers closer communication, and Harry slams his shields into place, just needing a moment to process the last few seconds in the privacy of his own mind.

Tom raises his eyebrows, and withdraws, and Harry looks away. For a moment, it seemed like Tom was going to force his way in, and even though Harry knows Tom would never do that, Tom always asks permission, it’s still frightening that the thought would occur to him. It’s probably the trauma. And Harry... Harry does not feel-- something is strange. He feels watched. He reinforces the barrier blocking off his connection to Voldemort, but the whisper of wrongness does not quiet.

Alright. Harry frowns and casts his mind about, hoping intuition will lead him to whatever is causing this feeling, and as he does so, it occurs to him that he hasn’t performed weekly maintenance checks on his shields in _months_. That’s... frankly, that’s terrifying. He doesn’t know how he could have forgotten.

Harry blinks, and cocks his head to the side. What was he just thinking about? Oh yes, the strange feeling. He shuts his eyes to concentrate, and searches for the source.

He finds it, at the very back of his mind. Tom is there, travelling along a well-worn path that wasn’t there the last time Harry performed one of his weekly checks-- sweet Morgana, that was months ago, he realises with horror. Tom stands on the path, and he has not noticed Harry.

How and why is Tom here, standing on this hidden path with a confidence that suggests he’s the one who made it? Harry’s eyes are _shut_.

_He had already begun to sift through my surface thoughts_.

Hm.

_I saw myself reflected in those eyes_.

What was it that Tom said once about the mirror in his father’s office? It took up an entire wall, did it not? Harry steps closer to that path. Tom still has not seen him. Harry recalls a headline.

_Tom Riddle Sr. found dead in office by gardener_.

What is going on? There is a secret here, a rather dire one, and it needs uncovering. Harry takes another step forwards.

_You’ve created a monster, Harry Potter_.

Strange. Harry doesn’t remember Tom saying that.

_It’s only the two of us, Harry_.

“What are you doing?” Harry says out loud. Tom turns, and then suddenly, Harry is standing in an opulent room with a desk and bookshelves and a wall of mirrors. There is a corpse in front of him, a corpse that looks frighteningly similar to Tom.

Harry turns to the mirror, and Tom’s face stares back at him, empty of all emotion.

Then Harry is climbing the familiar stairs of his parents’ house and stepping on the creaky one like he’s a guest. It is dark. He pushes open the door to the master bedroom. Both Potters are in bed. This is far too easy. Harry’s mouth opens, and Tom’s voice utters the killing curse once, and then twice, and then-- then--

Harry is on his knees in front of a muggle-- he doesn’t know how he knows it’s a muggle, he just knows-- and the muggle’s hands are in his hair, tugging, his voice is gasping _Tom, Tom,_ , and his cock is in Harry’s mouth-- Tom’s mouth, since these are Tom’s memories-- and Tom is closing his eyes and imagining that it’s Harry’s hands, Harry’s voice, Harry’s--

Harry is in the cozy bed, glaring at Riddle, who has drawn back, watching him warily.

“You,” Harry says, and Riddle sighs.

“What did you see?” he asks.

“Enough,” Harry replies, launching himself at Riddle, tangling the sheets, and Riddle catches him and puts his hand on Harry’s forehead, opening his mouth to say something.

“Sle--”

Harry manages to knee him in the crotch before he can finish speaking and drags him out of the bed, finding strength in his anger.

“You fucking murdered my parents,” he says, and Tom takes perhaps the most disarming action he possibly could and does not defend himself. “You-- you’ve been lying--”

Tom’s wand pokes in under Harry’s chin, and he gets out one syllable of the memory charm before Harry wrests it out of his grip and turns it on Tom.

“Incarcerous,” he incants, and Harry doesn’t bother to mentally direct the ropes that climb out of Tom’s wand, too preoccupied with the fury that burns hot in his chest, so it’s with mild surprise that he looks down after a moment to see Tom restrained at his feet, arms tied securely behind his back, on his knees.

“Harry--” Tom says, eyes wide with something adjacent to fear (he’s staring at his wand in Harry’s hand), and Harry reaches down to grab his chin, sticking his thumb in Tom’s mouth to shut him up.

“I trusted you,” he says. “You’re my _friend_. My parents keyed you into the wards because you were kind to me, they--”

Tom bites down on his thumb, and Harry just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Pathetic,” he says. “You’re fucking pathetic, is what you are. A pathetic liar, a-- you killed my parents!”

Tom glares at him and struggles uselessly against the ropes, a flush rising in his cheeks, and Harry just laughs, thinking back to the final memory he witnessed.

“Oh, don’t even bother,” he says. “We both know you want to be exactly where you are right now.”

At that proclamation, the pink in Tom’s cheeks turns into a full-on blush, and he shakes his head, averting his eyes like he can’t bear to keep watching Harry.

“Look at me,” Harry demands, and Tom tenses. “Fucking look at me, Tom.”

Tom shudders, and looks back up.

“Do you want me to tell you what I’m going to do to you?” Harry asks. “Or would you prefer I just do it?”

Tom makes a soft noise, muffled by Harry’s grip on his jaw and the thumb holding his tongue down, and he immediately quiets, looking back down and trying to duck his head.

“Aw, are you embarrassed, Tom?” Harry says. “Not going to answer?”

Tom is closing his eyes, relaxing his shoulders, and letting his jaw go slack as he takes a deep breath, and honestly, does he think Harry is an idiot? He knows what it looks like when Tom tries to use wandless magic, and he knows how to throw off his focus.

“I bet I know exactly what you want,” Harry murmurs, letting go of Tom’s jaw to put his hand around his neck instead. He squeezes, and watches Tom tense up, watches the shivers that dance across his body. “Hm? I’m not even squeezing hard enough to choke you, Tom.”

“Fuck you,” Tom says, voice meek, and he sounds utterly defeated but not disappointed about it. Harry laughs darkly.

“Now I just have to decide if I’m going to fuck your throat before or after I kill you.”

“What,” Tom whispers, disbelieving, and Harry squeezes harder just to mess with him before letting go of his neck and grabbing a handful of Tom’s hair to tug on it.

“Imagine,” Harry says, drowning in a sea of ruthlessness. He’s never felt this angry before, at least not in this way. It’s cold. He feels like he should be shivering. “If I kill you first, you die without ever getting what you want from me... And I don’t even have to do it afterwards, I just have to tell you I will and you’ll die knowing just how close you were to having me. You did this for my attention, didn’t you, Tom. You killed my parents to make me depend on you. You attacked Hogsmeade after I met a date there, you burnt down the bookstore by my flat when I got absorbed in a fantasy novel and forgot to meet you for lunch last summer-- oh, don’t even pretend, it wasn’t attributed to Voldemort, but I know it was you.”

“Harry--”

“You could have had me,” Harry says, as a somber mood suddenly falls over him. “You could have been a normal fucking person, Tom. You could have treated me well. I would have fallen in love with you. You’re smart, and clever, and attractive, and you chose to do _this_. You’re never going to fucking have me, Tom. And it’s your own goddamn fault.”

Tom is gaping at him, and Harry just looks down at him sadly as the full weight of this betrayal settles onto his shoulders.

“You’re my best friend,” he says. “I don’t-- I--”

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” Tom says. “You--”

“You murdered my parents,” Harry says without inflection, and it’s not an accusation, just a simple fact, cold like stone against his back.

“Harry, look at me,” Tom says, and Harry makes eye contact without thinking; some part of him, somewhere, still trusts Tom.

Instead of tearing his mind apart like he expects, Tom lets his shields drop completely. Despite the gravity of the situation, Harry finds that he kind of likes that, likes Tom making himself vulnerable to him.

“Explore me?” Tom says, and it’s a request, not a disguised order. It’s Harry getting to choose for real. “Understand why I chose-- you could understand, if you looked. So look. See what you find.”

Harry wants to. He wants to understand, wants to see why Tom would do all of this to him, but... traps, he remembers. Tom can set traps. He shakes his head. Tom’s expression twists, and he snaps,

“You’re going to regret spurning--”

“You sound like Malfoy,” Harry says.

“I allowed you unconditional access to--”

“I don’t want you to let me in!” Harry says. “I want-- I want to hurt you. If you’re willing to give me it, I don’t want it.”

Tom is looking up at Harry with stunned intrigue in his eyes.

“Let me out of these ropes,” he says, and Harry wonders if he actually wants out or if he’s only testing Harry, to see what he’ll do. Either way, the answer is the same.

“No,” Harry tells him, viciously glad to be able to deny him anything.

“What are you going to do?”

Tom’s voice trembles on the first word before he can steady it, and Harry’s eyes lock onto him. He relishes Tom’s weakness.

“Well, I don’t know,” he says. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“Right,” Tom says, eyes narrowing. He lunges forwards, and Harry feels teeth against his fingers and draws back, accidentally losing his grip on Tom’s wand in the process. It clatters to the floor, and Tom grabs for it-- apparently his arms weren’t tied as securely as they seemed to be-- but Harry puts a foot out and steps on Tom’s hand before he can reach his wand.

“Daring,” Harry comments, knowing that the Gryffindor trait will offend Tom. “Stupid, but daring.”

He bends down and picks up Tom’s wand.

“Incarcerous,” he says, far more firmly this time, testing the rope afterwards by tugging at it. That’s not really enough to be sure, though. “Struggle.”

“No,” Tom says, baring his teeth, and Harry gives a sarcastic grin and points Tom’s wand at him.

“Rictasempra,” he says, and Tom bursts into giggles, unable to sit still. It’s not perfect, as far as spells to make people struggle go, but Harry isn’t going to cast the Cruciatus. Not for Tom. He isn’t worth it.

“Fuck,” Tom says, between laughter. “Harry-- Harry let me--”

“No,” Harry says, cancelling the charm, satisfied with the strength of the ropes. “Here’s how this will go. You will not ask me to do anything, or stop doing anything.”

“And if I do anyway?” Tom asks.

“Then it’s over,” Harry says. “I kill you, right then.”

There’s a moment where it seems like Tom is going to accept that answer.

“Do it now, then,” he says. “Get it over with.”

Harry’s jaw drops.

“Well?” Tom challenges. “I told you to do something. I thought that wasn’t allowed. I guess you’re all talk, aren’t you, Harry James--”

“You shut your lying mouth,” Harry says, angrier than he expected to be at his father’s name on Tom’s lips. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Oh, what are you going to do, cast silencio?”

Harry slaps Tom. He slaps him right across the face, with as much force as he can muster, wanting him to hurt, wanting him to _stop_ , and it actually does silence him for a moment as he takes several ragged breaths, eyes wide, lips parted.

“Woah,” Tom murmurs, and when he looks up at Harry there’s something sharp and desperate in his eyes. “You hit like a girl, Potter.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the schoolyard insult and refuses to be goaded.

“You liked it,” he says, and then he has the rather pleasurable experience of getting to see Tom Riddle _squirm_. “You want me to do it again, don’t you.”

Tom swallows, and looks down at Harry’s shoes.

“If I want it, I won’t say,” he says. “And if I don’t, I’ll say I do. Right?”

Harry frowns.

“Nevermind,” he says, irritated. “Pretend I didn’t ask you.”

“Very well,” Tom says, as though a response was even necessary. “How long are you going to keep dilly-dallying?”

“How long are you going to keep breathing?” Harry shoots back, and Tom’s breath hitches.

“As long as you allow it,” he says with a smirk.

“Well, I don’t anymore,” Harry says grouchily. “So quit.”

Tom raises his eyebrows and continues to breathe.

“I hate you,” Harry says.

“Then fucking do something about it,” Tom says, and Harry is well aware that he’s goading him, but... Tom is just so annoying, is the thing. Harry narrows his eyes, and flicks Tom’s wand downwards, gathering his intent and focusing it before incanting, “Cruciamotus cogitatus.”

Tom’s eyes widen, and the spell hits him point blank. He shudders, then raises an eyebrow at Harry.

“Was that supposed to do something?”

Harry smirks, and dismisses the ropes binding Tom. Tom moves as if to lunge, and then cries out in pain, stopping the movement before he can get anywhere. His eyes are wide. He shuts them, bites his lip, and starts to move one arm from behind his back, but it’s apparently too painful, and he gives up quickly, watching Harry with a mix of envy, admiration, and hatred in his eyes.

“Where did you find that spell?”

“It was invented by an acquaintance of mine,” Harry says. “And can only be used by a caster who was gravely wronged by an unremorseful victim.”

“How does it work?” Tom asks, voice heavy with grudging respect.

“It causes pain when you move,” Harry says. “Though mercifully, I haven’t included your face in the spell. For some reason I find you more charming when you can grovel and compliment my spellwork.”

“Yes, give my compliments to Severus, it’s quite a masterful demonstration of neurospellcrafting,” Tom grits out, jaw clenched in anger. “You’re using my wand.”

“Yes, I am,” Harry muses. “How curious. It doesn’t seem to mind me, though I get the impression that it will change its mind if I attempt more benign spells.”

“It’s rather vicious,” Tom says.

“Say, where’s my wand?” Harry asks.

“As if I’ll tell you that.”

Tom glares at Harry as he speaks, and Harry crouches down in front of him so their eyes are level and smiles.

“I think you will,” he says.

“You don’t seem the type for torture, Harry James Potter,” says Tom, and Harry tightens his grip on Tom’s wand not because of the implication that he’d torture Tom, but because of the way Tom’s voice twists like a taunt on Harry’s middle name.

“You’ll tell me where it is,” Harry says softly, deliberately injecting kindness into his voice, “because if you do, I’ll perform the fantasy I witnessed earlier before I kill you.”

“And if I don’t tell?” Tom challenges. “You want to use me just as much as I want to be used.”

Harry chuckles.

“Well, I know something you don’t, Tom,” he says. “Namely, that wanting and doing are not equivalent. And I would absolutely deny myself to spite you.”

Tom narrows his eyes, and after a long moment, he hisses out, “I don’t know why I devoted so much energy to you, you detestable little worm.”

It’s as obvious a concession as Harry figures he’s likely to get out of Tom, and he grins, and waits.

“In the drawer in the side table,” Tom says, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“No, it isn’t,” he says. “The side table drawer has a sneakoscope and something cursed in it, and if I can feel that, it means it’s not warded to prevent sensing from without, and therefore, my wand is not there. I can certainly walk around this residence to triangulate an area from which I detect no magic, although if I find my wand on my own, you will lose your chance to get what you want.”

“Fine,” Tom says. “ _Return_.”

And Harry feels his wand near-- very near.

“What was that?” he asks curiously.

“Parselmagic,” Tom says. “Go on, Harry. I’ll sit tight. Fetch your wand like a good boy.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Accio wand,” he says, and almost laughs at the venomous expression on Tom’s face as his wand flies into his hand from the mantelpiece. He sticks his own wand into the pocket of his pants, an unfamiliar pair of slacks, and wonders for the first time where this clothing came from. “Whose pants are these?”

“Mine,” Tom says. “Aren’t you going to use--”

“Absolutely not,” Harry says. “Yours seems rather cooperative right now-- almost as though it enjoys being used, how odd-- and mine would never forgive me if I used it to cast the killing curse.”

“So you do plan to cast it, then?” Tom asks, voice hushed, and Harry laughs hollowly.

“To be honest, Tom, I’d consider it more unforgivable to make your death painful and agonising, and the argument that the avada kedavra is wrong because it has no known defense doesn’t quite apply in a situation where you’re defenseless against even the tickling charm.”

“Though you seem to have no qualms causing me agony whenever I move,” Tom quips, and Harry smirks.

“That’s a rather different situation,” he says. “You can avoid the pain, if you’re good.”

“Oh, if I’m _good_ ,” Tom says, silky voice infused with amusement. “Of course.”

“You want to be good, don’t you, Tom?” Harry teases, also amused, and Tom tries to look indifferent, but the blush rising back into his cheeks betrays his embarrassment at the question.

“If by ‘good’ you mean ‘Harry Potter’s murderer’, then yes, Harry, I would like more than anything to be good.”

“That was weak,” Harry says. “I know you’re cleverer than that, Tom.”

“Whatever,” Tom says. “Just get on with--”

“You are not in charge here,” Harry interrupts. “You are _nothing_. You have nothing. You are powerless, and you will take what I give you without demanding more or complaining, or rushing me, or asking me to slow down.”

“Oh, yes,” Tom says, a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me, baby, talk dirty to me.”

Harry glares at him, unamused.

“There was a windowseat in the bookshop you burnt down, you know,” he says, and Tom raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t care,” he says.

“It was big enough for two and I planned to show you it the next time you visited my flat. You would have liked the shop--”

“Yes, I’d have loved this muggle bookshop,” Tom says sarcastically. Harry resists the temptation to slap him again.

“You would have,” he insists. “It reminded me of your quarters at the school. It reminded me of you, Tom.”

Tom is making a valiant attempt to keep on glaring at Harry.

“Great, so now a muggle bookshop reminds you of me, how flattering.”

“It reminded me of you because I was always thinking of you,” Harry says. “Even the most tangentially related things remind me of you. And now they’ll all remind me of you killing my parents. You’ve really messed this up, Tom. None of this was necessary, because I would have willingly been yours and now I never will. I really shouldn’t even give you an opportunity to pretend that I am.”

“That’s not what I’ll be doing,” Tom says, voice strangled like he’s in pain, but he hasn’t tried to move. “I’ll be pretending that I’m yours, that you want me.”

“I want you, Tom,” Harry says. “But I won’t keep you.”

“Why not?” Tom asks, and he sounds half like a petulant child and half like an orphan who has been denied even the smallest scraps of happiness and only wants to know why the world has treated him this way. Perhaps he is both.

“Because I want other things more,” Harry says. “Things I can’t trust you to provide, things I can’t trust you to allow me to keep.”

“What things?” Tom asks desperately. “I can buy you--”

“Safety,” Harry says. “For you not to have killed my parents. Happiness. A world where muggleborns are accepted as equals. Some things are more important than both of us, Tom.”

“Nothing is more important than us,” Tom says, face open and earnest. “Harry--”

“Yes, some things are!” Harry says. “So many things are more important! If you don’t understand that, I don’t know why you even want to be my friend.”

“Because nothing matters the way you do, Harry,” Tom says.

“You’re hopeless,” Harry says, shaking his head. “You-- I hate you. You never had to do any of this. I hate how I want you, I hate you for making me care about you. You’re awful.”

“Thanks,” Tom says sarcastically.

“Well what can you expect me to say?” Harry demands. “I’m not going to declare my love for you, you absolute bastard.”

“Whatever,” Tom bites out. “I understand.”

Harry sighs, and sits on the bed, putting his face in his hands and trying not to cry. It’s difficult, and it makes him want to see _Tom_ crying, _Tom_ devastated, _Tom_ in pain. The dark mark on his forearm pulses, and Harry flinches.

He looks suspiciously up at Tom to see that he’s misty-eyed.

“I am sorry,” Tom says.

“If that’s true,” Harry says softly, “you can move without it hurting again.”

Tom moves like he expects no pain and ends up shuddering and biting down hard on his tongue. A scream escapes despite his efforts, but it’s choked and pathetic.

“That’s what I thought,” Harry says. He stands, and walks up to Tom, touching his cheek and cradling his face for a moment (imagining what he could have had if Tom hadn’t ruined everything), then draws his hand back and slaps him a second time. Tom flinches back, and then his eyes are wide. “That was for lying to me.”

“That-- when I flinched it didn’t hurt,” he says. Harry narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on Tom’s wand. Tom cautiously moves one finger, and then cries out. “Fuck. Cruciamotus _cogitatus_ , of course. Only conscious movement causes pain. It makes sense, otherwise it’d hurt to breathe-- oh god.”

Tom’s face twists in pain.

“What is it?”

“I accidentally focused on my breathing,” he gasps. “Oh god, oh god, oh god--” and he’s reaching out, reaching for Harry’s hand-- “it hurts, Harry, it _hurts_ , please make it stop, please--”

He’s gasping for air, and it seems like the pain subsides for a moment before it flashes across his face again. And Harry takes spiteful pleasure in seeing it, but it also aches to watch it, because Tom is his best fucking friend. Tom is still reaching out, and Harry bypasses his hand to grab a handful of his hair and drag him closer.

“Harry please,” he’s saying, and Harry is unbuttoning the slacks and ripping the zipper down, because this is the unthinking panic he was hoping for.

“If you bite me, I’ll obliviate your entire life out of you and drop you in the middle of muggle London,” Harry says, and Tom breathes in sharply in shock.

“Are you--”

“Open your fucking mouth,” Harry says, and Tom, obedient, opens his mouth, licking his lips and letting his tongue loll out. It’s-- Harry swallows-- hot. “Good,” he says, gripping his cock in his hand and nudging the head against Tom’s warm, wet tongue. Tom tries to move forwards, but the pain is too much, and he’s stuck just waiting.

“Please,” he says, voice quieter and higher than Harry has ever heard it. “Harry-- Harry please, _please_ \--”

“Shut up,” Harry says. “Mouth _open_.”

Tom stops begging and lets his mouth hang open, but he’s still whimpering, high and breathy, like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“Shit, that’s pretty,” Harry says under his breath. “Mm. Imagine, Tom. If you weren’t a dark lord, if you had just treated me with respect and understood that my parents will always have some of my love, you could have had me.”

Tom shudders, and glares, but Harry continues without mercy.

“I would have done this for you,” he says. “I would have indulged any fantasy you shared with me.”

Tom swallows, and Harry lets go of his hair to slide his thumb along Tom’s bottom lip.

“You could have been mine,” Harry murmurs, and the thought makes his heart ache with the injustice of it all.

There are tears in Tom’s eyes. Harry has never seen him cry before.

“I am not yours,” he says solemnly. “And you are not mine. I want to have you and keep you so much it hurts, but at the same time, I know that I won’t.”

He sighs.

“Harry,” Tom whispers, and Harry tugs sharply on his hair.

“Shut up,” he says, voice quiet, wobbling with pain. “You don’t get to speak. You don’t get to be hurt by this. You aren’t allowed. You took _everything_ from me.”

“Harry, I’m sorry,” Tom says. He blinks and tears slide down his face. He tries to move again and lets out a low keening sound as his face contorts in pain.

“You aren’t,” Harry says. “Stop telling me lies. The spell will undo itself if you ever feel remorse.”

“Is that the only way to break it?” Tom asks, and Harry shakes his head.

“If the wand which cast it is broken, it will end,” he says. “That’s the other reason I used yours.”

“I hate you,” Tom says. “Harry-- Harry Potter, I hate you. I’m going to kill you, I’m going to make you fucking _whimper_ \--”

Harry points Tom’s wand at his throat, digging the tip of it into the pale skin just under his jaw.

“I’ve seen you break a silencio,” Harry says, “so if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to transfigure your vocal chords into sand.”

Tom’s eyes widen, and his breathing speeds up, shaky and panicked.

“No,” he gasps. “Please, please don’t--”

Harry just laughs, and Tom stops talking, watching Harry with wary, panicked eyes.

“Look at you,” Harry says. “Proud, powerful dark lord so easily reduced to begging. I brought you down with a knee to the crotch and the weight of your own ego. You’ve failed, Tom. Not because the world wasn’t ready for you or because of sabotage, but because you’re _you_. You never had a hope of winning.”

Tom bares his teeth, but Harry glances down and sees the bulge in his pants. He lets his gaze linger there meaningfully, and then looks back up at Tom and raises an eyebrow derisively.

Tom hisses. He lunges forwards-- how-- and his shape is changing, becoming elongated and scaly and-- he transforms into a snake. _He transforms into a snake_.

Just as quickly, he changes back, and he’s in a heap on the floor, but he quickly stands, grinning triumphantly (fear bleeds into his expression as well) and plucking his wand from Harry’s hands.

“I knew that would work,” he says smugly (but he also sounds terrified, full of clumsy bravado, and Harry is certain that Tom had no idea whether it would work or not). “Now. Let’s see.” He points his wand at Harry, hand shaking, and doesn’t even pause to gloat before firmly incanting, “Obliviate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3 so what do you think? let me know in a comment!!


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